Tag: shameless

“Say You Won’t Let Go”

“Say You Won’t Let Go”

Fan Fiction Written Sadie West

Short blurb: When Trevor stands up Ian Gallagher, Ian barges into his apartment to find out why. He discovers Trevor bleeding and fading in and out of consciousness after a brutal attack. EMT Ian to the rescue.

Three hours late. Three hours without answering a call or a text.

Ian Gallagher checked his phone one more time as he jogged up the stairs to Trevor’s apartment. Trevor would never stand him up and then go radio silent. He was too good a person for games like that.

Which made Ian think something was seriously wrong.

He pounded on the door. “Trevor?”

Ian knocked again, louder. The door opened, but the chain was on, and Trevor’s roommate Scott poked his nose into the crack.

“Where’s Trevor?” Ian demanded. “Is he in there?”

“Just go, man,” Scott pleaded. “The neighbors’ll call the cops if you don’t.”

“Trevor!” Ian shouted into the gap.

Scott put a hand on the door to steady it. A bloody hand.

“Whose blood is that?” Ian demanded, though deep down he already knew. “Why is your hand bloody?”

“Please,” Scott whined, glancing anxiously behind him. “Get out of here.”

“Where’s Trevor? Who’s bleeding?” Oh, fuck it. Ian backed up, took a breath, and shouldered the door open. The chain snapped and Scott scurried away.

“Trevor,” Ian called, heading for the man’s closed bedroom door. He didn’t wait for permission to enter, but whipped it open. For a worried moment, he catalogued the scene. That’s what his EMT training had done for him. A bloody victim meant a crime scene, and Trevor’s bedroom certainly qualified.

There were droplets of blood on the glossy hardwood floor, smears of red on the sheets and pillows, and curled in a fetal position amongst the messy bedclothes lay Trevor, looking improbably small and fragile.

“Trev?” Ian called more softly as he crossed the room in three long strides, his EMT training taking over completely. “What happened? What’s wrong?” He bent over the bed and checked for a pulse first and an airway second.

“Jesus,” Ian swore.

Trevor’s swollen and bloody face was almost unrecognizable.

It was one thing to see a stranger beat to hell and back while out on a call. It was something very different seeing the man he loved in such a state.

He needed to do something. He needed to fix this.

Trevor roused under Ian’s touch, and he woke with a jolt. He came off the bed faster than Ian expected, knocking him back a step and then throwing a wild punch.

“Get your hands off me,” Trevor screamed. “Don’t touch me!” One haymaker caught Ian on the jaw, and he stumbled into the dresser.

Ian tried once to hold Trevor by the wrists simply to keep him from hurting himself, but the moment Ian locked hands around him, Trevor went ballistic, smacking him hard.

Ian recognized what he hadn’t seen before. Angry red ligature marks circling both wrists and bruising around his throat. He’d been held down and with force.

Trevor hit Ian on every spot he could reach, but soon his pleas degenerated into desperate, “Don’t, don’t,” and his punches became little more than slaps.

“It’s me,” Ian said, blocking a half-hearted left hook. “Trevor, it’s Ian. Let me help you.”

Trevor dropped his arms like two dead weights at his sides, and then he hung his head and swayed dangerously to the right.

“Shit.” Ian caught him before he fell, capturing him against his chest.

Trevor’s head lolled over Ian’s arm, and Ian cupped the back of his skull. There was no way not to see everything they’d done to Trevor. His left side was the worst—swollen, pink, and still oozing blood—but a deep scratch bracketed his right eye as if his face had been ground into concrete. Gently, Ian lowered him to the floor.

Without even thinking about it, Ian went through his assessment protocol. He ran his hands through Trevor’s hair, sticky with blood, and then across his brow and cheekbones.

“No obvious fractures,” he murmured, briskly checking for a broken collarbone or serious injuries to the arms. He studied the bruises ringing Trevor’s wrists more closely. Definitely finger marks. Ian tilted Trevor’s chin gently one way and then the other. Finger-sized marks around his throat.

“You probably have a concussion,” Ian said, his voice husky as he attempted to remain clinical. Because if he started to think too emotionally about what Trevor had been through tonight, he’d lose it. Do something stupid. Something crazy.

“That’s why you’re disoriented and losing consciousness,” Ian remarked, shifting to continue his assessment.

The front of Trevor’s trousers had been torn open. One half of the broken zipper had been ripped free of most of its seam and the button at the top of the fly was missing. Ian brushed aside Trevor’s shirt with the excuse of checking his abdomen for signs of trauma, but he really wanted to assess fresh bruises on Trevor’s lower belly and the crest of one hipbone.

“You’re okay,” Ian panted, holding on by a thread. “Babe, you hear me?” He scowled into Trevor’s battered face. “Let’s get you back in bed.”

Crouching, Ian slid an arm under Trevor’s shoulders and knees, his boyfriend’s limbs dangling lifelessly, and carried him to the bed. He removed the only shoe Trevor still wore and covered him with a blanket.

Someone had done this. Probably someone Trevor knew. Ian bit back the rage insisting he find the perpetrators and murder them. Violently.

That was a task for a later date. Right now, Trevor needed him present, calm, and thinking clearly.

But Ian tossed those good intentions out the window as he sent the open bedroom door a hateful scowl over his shoulder before storming out of it. He grabbed a startled Scott by the shirt and slammed him against the nearest wall.

“What the fuck happened to him?”

“I don’t know!” Scott exclaimed.

“Bullshit. Tell me what happened.”

“I swear. He came in a while ago, falling and crying. I thought he was drunk. He tried to punch me!”

“When he comes home like that, you call me,” Ian ground out, driving Scott harder against the wall. “I’m an EMT, dipshit. I can help. You always call me if Trevor’s in trouble. If he has a runny nose. You call me first.”

Scott squirmed. “He made me promise not to.”

Ian tossed the mousy bastard aside and then gathered a bag of frozen veggies from the freezer and a washcloth before slipping back into Trevor’s bedroom.

He hadn’t moved an inch. Flat on his back, his face pulverized, he looked broken, and it made Ian sick inside.

Trevor was the best man Ian knew. He didn’t deserve this.

“Babe,” Ian said, bending over the bed. “I need you to wake up.” In the case of a head injury, Ian had been trained to keep a patient awake and talking as long as possible. “Wake up.” Using the moistened cloth, Ian gently rubbed dried and clotted blood from Trevor’s left eye.

Trevor woke with a start, a full-body tremor. “No,” he cried, striking out at Ian. Just as abruptly, though, Trevor curled in on himself, shielding his head with both arms and drawing his knees up until he was as small as he could make himself.

“Trevor,” Ian breathed, leaning over him while simultaneously trying not to crowd him. “It’s me. It’s Ian. Please look at me.”

After a moment, the muscles in Trevor’s arms unclenched and he turned his face toward the sound of Ian’s voice. “Ian?”

“Yeah, babe.” He deflated with relief. “It’s me. I’m right here.”


Trevor reached for him, and Ian gathered him into his arms.

“They—they—” Trevor gasped, clinging to Ian’s shirt, his fingers talons. “No, they…”

“I know,” Ian said, kissing the top of his head and shifting on the bed to hold him even closer. “You don’t have to say it,” Ian assured. “I know. Trevor, I know.”

He cried then, deep, wracking sobs that shook them both. The kind of crying that scared Ian. The kind of crying that could break a person.

Ian held him through it, whispering soothing promises into his hair, massaging his back and shoulders. Slowly, Trevor’s breathing evened out.

“Hey.” Ian jostled him. “Stay awake.”

Trevor wiggled his forehead deeper into the crook of Ian’s neck. “Mmm head hurts.”

Without releasing him, Ian grabbed the bag of vegetables from the bedside table and pressed it to the side of Trevor’s face. He flinched.

“They’re not exactly frozen anymore,” Ian said, “but the cold will help with the pain and swelling.”

“Ian?” Trevor queried, as if he wasn’t sure.

“Right here, babe,” Ian assured. “I’m right here.”

Trevor relaxed into Ian’s chest, resting his full weight against him. “Don’t leave me.”

“I won’t,” Ian swore.

Trevor’s breathing deepened as his hands relaxed.

“Hey,” Ian said, pulling Trevor further into his lap. “Stay awake a little longer.”

“Tired,” Trevor groaned.

“I should call my crew,” Ian lamented. “You need to be in a hospital. You could have serious head trauma.”

“No.” Trevor sat ramrod straight, his hands grabbing at Ian’s collar. “You can’t.”

“Can’t what?” Ian asked, massaging his biceps and then his hands. He frowned into Trevor’s swollen eyes, particularly his left, and sensed Trevor wasn’t looking back. “Can you see me?” he asked.

As gently as he could, Ian opened the left eye, despite Trevor’s protests, to assess the damage. He knew what a detached cornea looked like. Or a blown pupil.

Trevor’s left eye was bloodshot, but appeared intact.

“I can see you,” Trevor exclaimed, fighting back. “It’s blurry, but I can see, you fucker.”

Trevor swatted him away and lay down again, drawing his face into his knees.

“Keep the veggie bag on your left side,” Ian told him. “It’ll help.”

Ian stood from the bed trying to figure out what to do next, how to help Trevor, how to support him. If he called the cops, they’d take Trevor to the hospital and examine him, exposing him as transgender. They’d want to complete a rape kit. They’d mis-gender him. They’d make him feel about as low and helpless as he’d ever felt as a troubled teen.

As an EMT, Ian’s first instinct was to call for help. As a boyfriend, though, his only instinct was to protect. Boyfriend Ian won out.

He kicked off his shoes and crawled into bed beside Trevor, purposefully leaving an empty gulf of rumpled sheets between them.

Trevor slid one hand away from his face, and Ian clasped it. He wouldn’t look at him, though.

“You know that DJ we like?” Ian asked softly. “She’s going to be at a club on Western in a couple weeks. I also heard she writes and performs her own stuff, too. Old-school country western songs. Can you believe that?”

Trevor’s voice emerged from under his arm small and muffled. “I thought the boots she wore were ironic.”

Ian chuckled. “Exactly. Me, too. But apparently, she’s a big fan. Though she’s the first country singer I’ve ever seen with gauges and a face tattoo.”

“I’m gonna need a tattoo,” Trevor said, “to cover up my new ground beef face.”

“Your face is gonna be fine,” Ian assured. “My brother Lip gets beat to shit at least once a month. Cold compresses and a combo of acetaminophen and ibuprofen work like a charm. You’ve seen Lip. Girls still dig him.”

“Ian, they…” Trevor’s voice wobbled.

Ian squeezed his hand. “Do you know who it was?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Good.” Ian would find them. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Lucky I’m dating an EMT, huh?”

No. Trevor had brought light and purpose into Ian’s life. Trevor made Ian want to be better. “I’m the lucky one.”

Trevor scooted across the mattress and snuggled into Ian’s arms. “You’re full of shit.”

Ian pulled him in close. “I may be full of shit, but my love for you is not.”

Exhaling and settling his cheek on Ian’s chest, he whispered, “Stay? Even if I fall asleep.”

“I’m not going anywhere, tough guy,” Ian promised. “Not now. Not ever.”

Thanks for reading!

<3 Anna & Sadie

Like vampires, shifters, and cheap books? Join my monthly newsletter today. <3 Anna

“I Only Have Two Hands”

“I Only Have Two Hands”

Fan Fiction Written Sadie West

Short blurb: Ian Gallagher is shot during a robbery at the Kash & Grab. While Mickey Milkovich tries to save his life, Ian relives important moments in their relationship. Set in the early seasons of Shameless (US).

Ian Gallagher hated the midnight to two a.m. shift at the Kash & Grab liquor store, but a lot of times his boss Kash liked it even less and so Ian often took his place. Kash didn’t care that Ian was sixteen, that he had school in the morning, or that Ian would much rather be sleeping.

Mickey Milkovich poked his head through the back door in a sleeveless, collared shirt with the word SECURITY on the breast patch. “Hey, you,” he called in his thick Chicago accent. “I’m gonna grab a smoke in the alley. Cover for me, will ya’?”

Ian shot the boy he loved a hopelessly romantic look. If it weren’t for Kash’s security cameras trained on him, he’d join Mickey in the alley. Ian shifted against the counter, tugging at his trouser front. It had been a while, and Ian wanted to sneak outside with him. Maybe, when Mickey returned, he could find the sweet spot under the counter where he was invisible to the cameras.

Deep in a graphic mental fantasy, Ian flinched when the front doors banged open and an asshole in a ski mask pointed a semi-automatic handgun at Ian’s nose.

“Open the drawer,” he demanded.

Ian stood in the bread aisle, frozen, while Kash fired a bullet into Mickey’s right thigh. Witnessing the young man he was crushing on knocked off his feet, yelling, and bleeding had no effect on Ian. Shock, he must be in shock.

Only when Kash approached Mickey, weapon still drawn, did Ian leap into motion and shield his friend.

Mickey’s thigh bled a lot, and Ian wanted to hug him so badly, to offer some kind of comfort, but Kash stood over his shoulder with the gun, and Mickey would never allow it. The fact that he let Ian touch his wounded leg was enough.

Ian began to shake. He fiddled with the buttons of the cash register, fumbling the mechanism. Ironically, the wannabe criminal on the other side of the counter was steady as a rock.

“There’s not much.” He wadded up about forty dollars—the entire contents. “Only enough for, uh, change until we close.”

Mickey better stay outside and smoke a second cigarette. If he walked in on the robbery, his temper would get him shot. Again.

The robber snatched the cash and shoved it into his pocket. “Fuck you.” He pulled the trigger.

It all seemed to happen at once—the gun popped, pain exploded across Ian’s abdomen, and he flailed into a rack of liquor bottles and cases of cigarettes.

“No,” Ian begged, a little too late.

Full, glass bottles of Crown Royale, Jack Daniels, and Grey Goose rained down upon his head.

Pain blew away as if caught in a stiff wind as darkness descended. Light dimmed. Ian blinked once, and Mickey cupped his face, his hands impossibly warm and rough against his oversensitive skin.

The air stank like alcohol.

Ian tried to ask, What are you doing here? There’s a creep with a gun. He’ll hurt you. But, “Whuyaaa?” was as far as he got.

“Shut up, dummy,” Mickey said, smiling past a sheen across both eyes. “It’ll only make you bleed out faster.”

Mickey grasped his hand, and Ian clung to him.

Though Mickey was out of juvie and Ian had seen him a couple times, they hadn’t been together yet. Ian snuck into his yard and scratched at Mickey’s bedroom window until the boy he loved slid it open.

“What the fuck do you want?” Mickey stood on the other side of the glass in nothing but boxer shorts.

Ian chipped paint off the wooden sill with his fingernail. “Did the bullet wound heal right?” he wanted to know. Then, on impulse, “Can I see it?”

“I don’t give a shit what you do.” But Mickey left the window wide open when he climbed back into bed.

Ian slid through the portal, landing gracefully on his feet. “What was juvie like?” he whispered. In the dim light, Mickey’s shape drew him like a magnet.

“Fucked up,” Mickey grunted.

Climbing into bed beside Mickey, Ian peeled the blanket off his lower body for a better look at his bare thigh.

Mickey lay real still, unnaturally still. “Yeah, you can suck me off while you’re down there, too.”

Ian couldn’t remember what the scar looked like, but Mickey tasted like clean skin and salt. It was his first time giving a blowjob, and afterwards he sprawled across Mickey’s chest, happy to doze for a few hours, but the other boy’s elbow caught him sharply in the ribs.

“Get the fuck outta here, asshole.”

Ian shivered as dark spots danced like fairies in his periphery. “Mick?” he slurred.

“I told you to shut up,” Mickey said, trying for levity but the tears in his eyes ruined the effect. “Why don’t you ever listen to me?”

Though Mickey was careful, when he lifted Ian’s upper body onto his lap, it hurt. The lights dimmed once more, and Ian may have passed out for a second because Mickey was shaking him and shouting again.

“Stop,” Ian complained. He blinked the shadows away. God, he was weak. He couldn’t feel his arms anymore, though he suspected his fingers were still locked between Mickey’s.

“The cops’ll be here any minute,” Mickey promised.

Ian gazed down his torso at the bloody wound in his belly. “…dying…” Weird, how it didn’t hurt anymore.

“You’re not fuckin’ dying,” Mickey snapped. “They’re gonna patch you right up.”

Ian blinked, and the world went dark and silent. As quick as flipping off the light switch. Mickey moved his face directly in front of Ian’s nose, jostling him. The floor tilted dangerously off balance, and Ian tumbled through a black hole.

Lights flickered as people in scrubs spoke rapid gibberish across Ian’s torso. His whole body jerked like stepping off a curb in a dream. Someone touched his arm roughly, possessively.

“Mickey?” he mumbled, searching through the haze. It had to be Mickey. No one else grabbed him the same way.

The dugout at night was a quiet, creepy place that smelled a bit like beer and urine.

“Don’t get any weird ideas,” Mickey greeted. He was always angry, always hating someone. It excited Ian, who couldn’t hold a grudge. Being with him was like being in the eye of a storm. Ian never knew, from day to day, if he’d experience Mickey’s fury or his protective side.

“Oh, yeah?” Ian shot back. “About what?”

Mickey grabbed him by the arms and forced him to sit, knees splayed, on the ancient wooden bench. “This doesn’t mean anything.”

His pants and briefs slid down and Mickey buried his face between his thighs before Ian fully appreciated the gesture. Mickey liked getting fucked. He’d never returned the favor before.

Is that all it was? A quid pro quo between fuckbuddies?

But then Mickey palmed his balls, and Ian didn’t give a shit why.

Doors and room numbers floated past, but where was Mickey?

Ian heard the words surgery, chances, and wait. Still no Mickey.

“I’m right here, Ian.” Mickey never called him Ian. He called him shithead, dummy, fucktard, and sometimes Gallagher. Never Ian.

He opened his mouth to call for him again when the walls stopped speeding past and something sharp pricked the back of his hand. He sank down through the gurney, through the floor, through the earth itself.

His age be damned, Ian loved to party. His fake ID gained him entry into every dance club on the south side. Mickey preferred a quiet beer at home. Some pot, maybe. He rarely even visited a bar.

So, between the booze and the pills, Saturday night was veering left fast. An older guy pestered Ian right out the exit door. When he stumbled out of the club and fell somewhere down the street in the literal gutter, he didn’t know what to do. If the creep followed him, he was helpless to fight him off. Ian liked fucking, but he wanted to be conscious for it.

Ian crawled out of the street and slumped against a brick wall, pulling his cellphone.

“Who the fuck is this?” Mickey answered.

“Mick,” he said, his mouth swollen and hard to control. “Come get me.”

“Gallagher?” he asked, sounding astonished. “Where the fuck are you? If this is a dumbass prank…”

“I can’t get up,” he whined. “There’s some creep…”

Mickey’s voice, when next he spoke turned serious. “Tell me where you are.”

“…street,” he breathed. “Club Smash…” His eyes drooped, and the phone must have fallen from his numb fingers because he never caught Mickey’s response.

When Mickey arrived, though, he wasn’t quiet or polite about it. He flung Ian against the sidewalk and kicked him in the ribs.

“Is this your idea of a good time?” he demanded. “Flirting with perverts and passing out on the street?”

Ian started to cry.

“You’re a fuckin’ disappointment,” Mickey swore. “Get up.”

He couldn’t.

Mickey pulled him roughly to his feet and supported him on the walk to his pickup.

“I’m sorry,” Ian whined.

“You scared the shit outta me,” Mickey replied, thrusting him into the truck. “I thought I was gonna find you stabbed and raped, you stupid bastard. Why are you out here alone?”

Ian leaned his head against the cool window glass and closed his eyes. “No one to go with.”

“Next time you wanna party, I’ll go with you,” Mickey said, starting the truck. “You need a fuckin’ chaperone. Might as well be me.”

Ian woke like rising from the depths of the community center pool. First, consciousness returned in pieces before he began to flex his limbs. Finally, his vision cleared enough to recognize the person beside him.

Across the narrow hospital bed, a sleeping Mickey balanced on the very edge, not an inch of him disturbing a single spot on Ian’s body. It looked uncomfortable.

“Mick?” His voice was raw and throaty.

The sound roused the other boy, who whipped his head up.

Their eyes met, and Mickey hovered over him, his face a mask of anxiety and grief. “Can you hear me? Are you awake?”

He nodded because his voice was trash.

Mickey hadn’t tried to touch him yet, not so much as a pat on the shoulder. Probably, he stupidly worried about hurting him.

Ian made the first move, laying his hand on Mickey’s. The touch seemed to revitalize him. Mickey’s features softened, and his chin wobbled.

“Is that really you?” Mickey asked. “Cause you’ve been opening your eyes now and then, but no one’s home.”

Just how bad was it? “It’s me, Mick,” he promised. “Am I dying?”

“No, shithead. You’re not that lucky.”

Things must be okay if Mickey was insulting him. Ian eased deeper into the thin mattress. “Did I get shot?”

“Shot, yep.” Mickey relaxed, too, curling around him. “And your head got split open.”

“The bottles?” Ian asked, sort of remembering all that liquor bombarding him when he fell into the shelf.

“Mmm-hmm.” Ian shifted positions, and Mickey laid his head on his bicep.

“Were you worried about me?” Ian teased. In truth, Mickey’s shared body heat and the weight of his arm was lulling him back to sleep.

“Hell, no,” Mickey said, one thumb rising to tenderly stroke his cheek. “I just didn’t wanna have to tell Fiona her no-good brother died.”

Ian smiled as his eyes fluttered closed. “I love you,” he murmured.

There was a sharp intake of breath and then silence. Ian withdrew his arm and lifted his head to see into Mickey’s face.

Too soon, Ian thought. He’d fucked up and said it too soon.

Mickey bit his lower lip and then shifted around as if he couldn’t get comfortable. After clearing his throat, he blurted out, “I love you, too. Now, shut up and go back to sleep. You’re supposed to be resting.” As he said it, he pulled Ian’s arm back around his ribs. “Dummy,” he breathed into his chest.

“Douche,” Ian whispered back, resting his cheek against the top of Mickey’s head. The corners of his mouth turned up, and he fell asleep.

Thanks for reading!

<3 Anna & Sadie

Like vampires, shifters, and cheap books? Join my monthly newsletter today. <3 Anna

A Brand New Shameless Fan Fiction

A Brand New Shameless Fan Fiction

“Say You Won’t Let Go”

A brand new Shameless fan fiction starring Ian+Trevor available for free on A03! Or read it here on my blog. (Also for free.)


When Trevor stands up Ian Gallagher, Ian barges into his apartment to find out why. He discovers Trevor bleeding and fading in and out of consciousness after a brutal attack. EMT Ian to the rescue.

By Anna Abner (writing as Sadie West)

Ghosts, Hauntings, & Cheap Books: Sign Up For My Monthly Newsletter Today.
Enjoy this Free Red Plague Sneak Peek PDF full of excerpts and extras!

<3 Anna

Also Writing as Sadie West

Also Writing as Sadie West

Or, Do You Like Short, Whumpy, M/M Stories? Me, Too!

Whump: n. A fandom term, commonly used by fan fiction authors to describe physical and/or mental abuse laid on a character in a story. (Source: urbandictionary.com)

Writing paranormal romances has been my lifelong dream, and I will never give it up, but recently I’ve been pestered with new ideas. Short, LGBT ideas chock full of whump. What started as a fun diversion quickly became more serious.

Now, I’m ready to make it official. I’m writing short, gay erotica under the name Sadie West.

All three short stories are available on Amazon, SmashWords, and Barnes and Noble for 99¢ each. A new Gallavich (the Ian Gallagher + Mickey Milkovich relationship from Shameless) fan fiction is live on ArchiveOfOurOwn.org as well as free on my blog.

I hope you enjoy this new facet of my writing. Let me know what you think!

Cover blurb:

A sexy, M/M short story set in high school. When hockey prodigy Danny Holden is in an accident, he has nowhere to turn except his ex-boyfriend’s family. 11,000 words.

Download from Amazon, SmashWords, and Barnes and Noble.

Cover blurb:

A sexy, M/M short story set in high school. Basketball players Alex and Jackson have been best friends since elementary school, but when Alex wants more than friendship, Jackson will have to confront his feelings for his handsome teammate. 2,500 words.

Download from Amazon, Smashwords, and Barnes and Noble.

Cover blurb:

Snowboarding pro Matthew finds his hot neighbor Noah close to death on the side of a mountain in the dead of winter. With no help coming, they’re alone in a cabin until the storm passes. 6,000 words.

Download from Amazon, SmashWords, and Barnes and Noble.

Cover blurb:

During a late night shift at the Kash and Grab, Ian gets shot during a robbery. While Ian passes in and out of consciousness, he remembers moments from his and Mickey’s relationship. 2,000 words.

Read for free on Archive Of Our Own (AO3) or right here on my blog.

Ghosts, Hauntings, & Cheap Books: Sign Up For My Monthly Newsletter Today.
Enjoy this Free Red Plague Sneak Peek PDF full of excerpts and extras!

<3 Anna

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